


Strangers For a Night

by spicyobsession



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Female Character of Color, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyobsession/pseuds/spicyobsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anatomy of a single night in Steven Hackett's life. Arcturus Station, 2176.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers For a Night

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this is the longform oneshot I've been working on since early November! Consider this-like all of my other ME works-as part of the Boats & Birds universe. It's a-alert, alert!-SMUTTY, character study of Admiral Hackett as well as an introduction (of sorts) to my custom Shepard. Please read and be gentle (or not.)

"Whiskey neat," Hackett says, transferring the credits from his omni-tool. "Rye, if you have it."

The bartender nods, sets down an old-fashioned snifter on the counter, and pours in front of him. He stops a third of the way and slides the glass to Hackett, who then cups the snifter and swirls its contents around before taking a satisfying sip: spicy, with just a hint of fruit. Normally, he'd balk at ordering such an extravagant drink for himself (earth whiskey being difficult to come by), but today isn't a particularly normal day.

Hackett raises his glass to the bartender. "Quality stuff."

"We try." The bartender turns his head as another patron enters the lounge. He faces Hackett again. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Taking that cue to clear the bar, he migrates to one of the end tables near the back of the room and sinks onto a lacquered chair as he leans back with his drink in hand, absorbing the rich surroundings of the Serenity Lounge & Bar.

Hackett had finally and completely finished moving a week ago into a modest apartment close to his office in the Alliance Parliament building that overlooks the cityscape of Arcturus Station. New apartment, new office, new uniform: a promotion to Admiral nets one a great deal of perks, apparently—not that he's heard differently from the people already up there like Kahoku, who had clapped his shoulder when he received the news and said something along the lines of "congratulations, more desk work and less field work" with a wry curl to his mouth. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass before taking another sip.

No signs of cabin fever so far though. In fact, it's what he wanted in the first place. Instead of watching higher-ups make foolish calls, now's his chance, his way in to prevent those decisions from trickling down to the soldiers (which he used to be), to question the brass, to make a bigger splash in the growing sprawl of Alliance bureaucracy. He plans to propose several initiatives at the next meeting, a thought that triggers the realization that he's left his proposal files at his work console. Hackett pauses before chuckling under his breath. He's come here to Serenityafter work to unwind and congratulate himself for becoming an Admiral at forty-three, not think about work some more.

The lounge's occupants make this difficult, however. Because of its close proximity to the main Parliament building, most of the people are in dress blues, loitering at the bar for a drink that they'll nurse for an hour or two before going home. He unconsciously presses further back into his seat, wearing civvies and avoiding eye contact with any of them. Hackett is still a relatively new face on Arcturus, a stranger to these co-workers of a sort and tonight, well—tonight will be quiet and uneventful, he decides.

A soft, electronic tune filters through the ceiling as the lounge lights dim in harmony with the station's artificial night-cycle. The raised platform near the entrance is empty because there are no performances on workdays with just a single bartender working the evening shift. He eyes the cream-colored walls and its partial wood paneling with surprised nostalgia, the details small but telling throwbacks to the bars on earth he used to frequent. Hackett's picked a good place and a good night. At a lounge at 8pm incognito, in a station that he's only just made his home—the circumstances are all but part of this substantial change in his life, of which he is both excited and yet uncertain.

Still holding his glass, Hackett gives the room another once-over, observing the skycars zooming around outside the windows, and that's when his gaze strays to the woman seated several tables across from him.

With one hand draped over her drink, she crosses her legs, tilting her head back as she surveys their surroundings. The lights cast a mellow glow on her that hints at the subtle musculature of her arms and shoulders. The fitted vest she wears does nothing to hide this, and he suspects the rest of her frame is similarly built. Others walk past her without comment; the blues of their uniforms and the golds pinned to their lapels highlight the way she stands out from Serenity's usual clientele. She looks young, as evidenced by the smoothness of her face. She looks tense, despite the arm casually slung over the back of her chair.

What would a woman like her be doing here?

He glances away before she catches him. Strange, that he had not noticed her before. A beep from his omni-tool draws a sigh out of him as Hackett pulls up a message from Mikhailovich, about something or other that can wait until tomorrow or later tonight once he finishes his whiskey and begins the short commute back to his apartment. There isn't much left in the glass anyway, and he's lounged here long enough. This isn't shore leave like the days of yore. Articles, meetings, and logistics await him in the morning: a different type of battlefield layout, a different type of fighting.

With an easy sort of inevitability, his gaze drifts back to the woman at her table, who impatiently rattles the ice cubes in her half-empty glass as if that'll refill her drink. The expression on her face, drawn tight and sharp, seems at odds with the soft, lazy glow of her dark skin. She tips her chin up, as if daring someone to approach her. Coughing, Hackett averts his eyes again and tries to concentrate on what he'd been doing before instead of letting himself be distracted by strange women in bars. He isn't in his twenties anymore. The message from Mikhailovich continues to blink at him as he mentally formulates a reply to the other man.

The sound of a chair being scraped back startles Hackett into looking up to find the woman seating herself on the opposite side of his table. She appears even more striking upon closer inspection, all harsh cheekbones and wild, curly hair that forms a halo around her head. A muscle jumps in her well-defined jaw as she abruptly says, "You were staring at me."

The timbre of her voice—deep and husky—throws him off for a second before he recovers. He didn't think she noticed. Clearing his throat, he begins, "Excuse me, ma'am—"

"Why." The word is fairly spat out.

Hackett blinks stupidly. She looks expectantly at him, fingers tapping restlessly on the table, her back against the chair in a rigid posture. Maybe it's the drink he's having tonight or the wide-eyed stare from the woman across from him—or most likely it's the unspoken challenge on her face that he'd seen earlier—but he tosses his hastily assembled apology out the airlock and replies in all honesty, "I'm not sure. You don't look like you belong here."

"How so." The expression on her face doesn't change.

He isn't sure who's humoring whom, but she hasn't gotten up in disgust and walked away. Perhaps it can be a mutually beneficial exchange. "Well," he answers, closing his omni-tool screen, "you're not wearing a uniform."

"Neither are you."

He steeples his fingers. "And the age bracket seems a bit too high for you."

That earns a quick smirk that disappears as swiftly as it'd arrived. "Are you calling yourself old?"

"Are you calling me old?"

"Old enough to blend in," she replies, and the tension in her shoulder breaks as a smile finally peeks around the corners of her mouth.

Hackett gives a sharp laugh, rusty from scarcity and disuse. "That begs the question—what are you doing in a place like this?"

"I was having a drink," she says with a wave of her hand.

"Was?"

"I finished it—" She jerks her head back toward her vacant table where an empty glass sits forlornly—"but would not object to a refill."

He stares at her, not quite believing the direction tonight has taken, and slowly says, "I don't even know your name."

She raises a finely arched brow, never missing a beat. "That's what the drink is for."

He laughs again: the second time in one night. Hell, the downloaded files in his omni-tool can wait until tomorrow. Hackett pulls up the holo-menu. "Choose whatever you want." As she puts in her drink order, his eyes follow the line of her elegant neck to where her vest frames her collarbone and back to her face. "It's Steven, by the way, since you asked so nicely."

Her own gray eyes meet his before darting away. "Mona," she says, "since you couldn't stop staring."

"I can stop."

"Don't."

He mulls over her reply until her choice of poison arrives, and as she tips her head back to drink deeply, Hackett silently admires the abundance of dark curls spilling over her shoulders. "Do you live on the station?"

"No," she answers, giving her lips a satisfied smack, "I'm only here for a few days."

"Holiday, is it?"

"I'm between assignments." Mona waves her drink at him. "I assume you have a cushy desk job."

"A recent development," he says, unconsciously straightening in his chair. "I hate to think I've gained desk pudge already."

"More of a hands-on kind of guy?"

"What gave it away?"

She cocks an eyebrow at him over the rim of her glass. "Your scar."

Ah, the thirteen year-old slash across his face. Hackett gingerly traces it before shrugging. "This? A childhood mishap." A story for another day.

He isn't sure which is making him feel warmer: the whiskey or that full-bodied chuckle she gives. "You must have lived in a pretty interesting place to have 'childhood mishaps' like that."

With a nod, he answers, "Buenos Aires. It's been a while since I visited. You?"

Her entire expression shifts—just by a hair, but enough for him to catch how her eyes light up at the mention of his city of origin. "Jakarta," she says more animatedly, and her voice swells to a softer pitch as she adds, "Hasn't been that long for me."

Hackett (semi-)soberly raises his glass to drink. "Both earthborn."

"And a little nostalgic, it would seem."

"How so?

Mona cants her head. "Look around the dive we're in. You had to have noticed when you first walked inside. Chairs that scrape when you don't lift the legs to push them, wooden details on the ceiling, true rye whiskey on the menu—"

"A home away from home," Hackett says, taking in his surroundings for the umpteenth time. It's true. That's why he chose Serenity from out of the brightly lit bars that line the avenue. There are nicer (read: expensive) lounges and clubs that serve better drinks, but none of them have that old-world ambiance he's been craving tonight.

With a sigh that sounds wistful, she turns so that her profile faces him. "The kind of place that calls you back."

Mona doesn't elaborate on that sigh so he doesn't press further despite his building curiosity as to the circumstances that have led her here. The slope of her forehead is graceful, slanting into a long nose that leads to her generous mouth and sharp chin. Against the backdrop of the lounge, it's an arresting image that combines the familiarity of the setting and the newness of her person. The unknowns she present aren't unappealing either—questions, questions, and more questions surround her.

Bringing the glass back to his mouth, Hackett says, "I'd be lying if I said I'm not feeling pulled towards something right now."

He can feel the look she shoots him all the way down to his feet. "Careful, you might get sucked in."

"That could be what I want," he slowly replies.

She responds in a tone that matches his. "Then by all means, keep talking."

Hackett finishes the rest of his drink, rises from his chair, and lets the whiskey sliding down his throat fuel his next words. "Actually, I'm going to ask you to dance."

Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, and an unspoken moment passes between them. Before he can rescind his request, however, Mona finishes her drink too and stands up. "I'm leading."

She walks in front of him, her low-heeled boots softly crossing the lounge as he follows suit. "And I know how to take orders."

With such a thin crowd, they have the space to themselves as Mona turns to face him. Hackett is momentarily thrown off by how tall she is (almost eye-level with him, in fact), but recovers quickly enough to place his hands on her waist while Mona leisurely snakes her arms around his neck like a lazy afterthought. The song, floating and eerie, trails from the speakers in thrilling notes that have their bodies swaying back and forth in rhythm to a woman's nonsensical words about numbers and orbital guns. What they're doing isn't dancing, not really, but the other woman in his arms doesn't look like she gives a damn so neither does he.

The tension he had initially sensed from her table and later at his is now thrumming under his fingers in the flare of her hips and the bone-straight length of her back. It's been fascinating to watch the way she carries herself, carefully wound and bound as if to contain an overabundance of energy, the hints of which he can pick up in greater frequency now that they're dancing so closely together.

It'd also been a piss-poor excuse to touch her, but perhaps she had a similar plan in mind as well. If anything, Mona draws closer to him, her clean, sharp scent wrapping around his head.

"You're a good dancer," he says.

"And you're such a gentleman," she replies, amused.

They continue moving, her eyes darting conspiratorially around the room as she murmurs, "You do know we're the only ones on the dancefloor."

The other patrons are either at the bar or scattered around the tables in sporadic patches. Since there isn't live music, no one has indeed bothered to join them. Hackett has a brief second of panic where he's convinced that everyone here knows him from work and will comment on this when he's at the office tomorrow, but that worry easily melts away at the press of her hips against his when the song enters its chorus.

Lowering his voice, he leans even closer. "I didn't really notice."

From this close-up, Hackett can fully appreciate the lushness of her lips as they twist into a wicked grin. "Maybe you're older than I thought."

"Or I'm just distracted."

She directs them in a slow spin. "By?"

"What do you think?"

"My dancing skills," Mona says, rolling her hips under his hands, "that must be it."

He politely coughs. "Among other things."

"Are you going to make me keep guessing?" she asks amusedly, a counterpoint to the subtle tightening of her grip on his shoulders.

Hackett chooses that moment to lower his head, his mouth inches from her ear as he says, "Like what you've been having me do all night?"

To his satisfaction, she falls silent, and for a time, they continue swaying to the music with their heads pressed together, hip-to-hip, pressing close through the fabric of their clothes as their feet carefully step around each other in delicate tandem. Eventually, Mona curls her fingers over the back of his neck and whispers, "One: I've been very direct." Her breath is hot on his ear so it burns when her lips graze his earlobe, intentional or not. "And two: this night is far from over."

After taking a moment to collect himself (along with deliberating the possible course of actions that will present themselves in the morning), Hackett lightly skims the small of her back with his fingertips and rumbles, "Then why are we still in this bar?"

She pulls back to look at him. Instantly, Mona is the picture of innocence. "You wanted to dance, if I remember correctly."

"Well, the song's over now." And most everyone has left or is leaving to head back home.

Mona chuckles, her hands draped on the front of his shirt. "So pay your tab," she says with a hard glint in her eyes, "and let's get out of here."

They soon break apart, and she makes a pit-stop at the restroom while he pays the bill and slips on his jacket. Hackett doesn't need to be told twice.

Outside, the air is crisp and cool as they make their way to where he's parked. Minimal foot traffic gives the avenue a deserted feel. Not a single word is exchanged from the time they get in the car to the time it powers on, lifting them up to join the midair highway stream. Buildings pass by in an ending blur of uniform rectangularity, austere and utilitarian in their architecture. It didn't take long for Hackett upon first arriving at the station to notice the dark blues and grays of the Alliance uniform reflected in equal measures in the station's neatly divided districts, and the relative vacancy of the skyways tonight provide Mona a clear vista as she silently looks out the window.

The repetitive monotony of their environment pushes him to comment. "It may be quiet now, but Arcturus can get pretty rowdy for a 40,000 strong space station, especially during multiple shore leaves for the soldiers. Of course, that's nothing compared to the Citadel."

Mona shrugs, her gaze still directed outside. "I've never been."

"Not a sight you forget," he continues, steering them in a gentle, arcing turn. "Who knows, you might one day."

Snorting inelegantly, she turns towards him. "That a poorly-disguised invitation for future meet-ups?"

"No," Hackett says, puzzled, "I meant—well. You look like someone with wanderlust."

"Wanderlust," Mona repeats, rolling the word around in her mouth. "What other things do you imagine about me? Am I a fully formed character in your head?"

The words sound confrontational, but he steers clear from those waters by lightly answering, "You're a secret agent who's supposedly taking a break between highly classified assignments, but is actually under deep cover to infiltrate a tech company here and commit corporate espionage."

It takes her a moment to absorb what he's said. "That is very…elaborate."

"But more than what you've given me to go on," he says.

"So I'm a complete stranger." She smirks. "Does that bother you?"

"Shouldn't it?"

"Doesn't bother me."

He gives an exasperated chuckle, his eyes trained straight ahead. "Not much does, I imagine."

Mona's eyes bore into him from the other side of the skycar. Perhaps he's guessed correctly this round. After another short pause, one that Hackett's beginning to notice as a giveaway of having surprised her or his deductions about her proven true, she nods solemnly. "Alright. From this time on to when we reach your apartment, you're free to ask me any question you want—and I'll answer every single one."

Now is his turn to raise his eyebrows as high as they'll go. "I could abuse the offer."

"And I could lie through my teeth," she says just as easily, "but we've gotten this far already with minimal bullshitting."

He hides his smile. "True."

His residential block, plain yet stately, comes into view. The Pavilion, as the subdivision is called, comprises of ten to fifteen buildings—each one interlocking with the other—clustered around a sizeable courtyard. Located just outside the center of the station, the neighborhood is one of the more aesthetically pleasing areas (which, in Hackett's opinion, still leaves much to be desired.) His real estate agent had fairly pushed the deal on him. He caved in only after seeing the indoor pool. After a facial scan and car ID check, the intricate, steel gates split open for them to pass through.

"There's a catch to this that I'm not seeing," he casually remarks as they approach his specific building. Being so deep into the evening cycle, most of the windows are dark, with no hint to the contents inside.

They pull into a parking garage behind the building. "You can always just ask me if there is," she points out.

"Yes," Hackett says, his skycar's thrusters creating a small whirlwind as it gingerly touches the concrete pavement. "But the where's the fun in that?"

Mona only hums in response while the car doors click open, and their footsteps echo strangely within the curved dimensions of the empty garage.

They enter the building through the back entrance, which is no less decorated than the front, with stock paintings of landscapes and potted plants lining the hallway that leads to the elevators. The plants unnerve him with the waxy sheen its synthetically alloyed leaves give off while the paintings, although pleasing enough, are exact copies of the ones in the front entrance and have thus already begun to bore him. The silvery-white shade on the walls is overdone as well, but Hackett mentions none of these things to the woman following close behind him.

The elevator is thankfully less pretentious than the rest of the building, stolidly sturdy and dependable as its doors cycle open to reveal a gray box sans window that would have presumably provided a panoramic view of the cityscape. It's something he had expected during his first tour around the apartment. Again however, this isn't the Citadel, but a hastily assembled space station, the internal structures of which have started to show grime a mere twenty-one years after its inauguration in 2156. Built to last, but ugly as sin to look at: the motto for human engineering, apparently.

"What floor?" Mona prompts, startling Hackett out of his brief reverie.

"Twenty-three," he answers.

She hits that number. At her sudden, mischievous smile, a lightbulb goes off in his head. "That's your age."

She leans against the side opposite to him. "That wasn't a question."

"I didn't have to ask," he says mildly, to which her smile widens as a reply. Her youth had been obvious from the get-go. "And no," he adds, "that doesn't bother me."

"Wasn't going to say anything. It's your metaphorical floor." She jerks her thumb to the elevator's numberpad. "Not the actual floor. We're moving pretty slowly."

Hackett holds out his hand, stifling a laugh. "Point taken—so do you have wanderlust?"

"That's partly why I left earth in the first place. But who doesn't these days?"

He crosses his arms. "Think you'll ever go back?"

A deep crease suddenly appears between her brows as her eyes dart sideways. There it is: that tension again. "I don't know," she manages in a light voice, "Eventually, but…" She presses her lips together in a tight line.

"Something on your mind?" he ventures.

Her face becomes shuttered again. "What makes you say that?"

"You're tense."

"I just need to unwind."

"Is that why you were at Serenity?"

Mona whips her head back toward him. "No," she says, "But it's why I'm here now."

On cue, the elevator pings, and the doors slide apart to reveal a long stretch of hallway with doors on both sides and gilded apartment numbers next to each frame. Hackett takes a step back to let her exit first; as she walks past, they brush shoulders: his clothed, hers bare. Her scent lingers in the space for seconds afterward, and he stays where he is for a beat too long before joining her out in the hallway. While leading the way, he imagines the full weight of her gray-eyed stare leveled on him like a chain and finds that he doesn't mind.

His door is but a few steps down the corridor, looking blank and unassuming. He enters the passcode on his omni-tool and turns the lights on upon entry. The place, while not immaculate, is tidy and organized in a manner bespeaking his military background. The moving crates have been collapsed and stowed away for later use, his clothes folded and put up in the closet, the newly purchased furniture unwrapped and standing in its rightful positions. Kitchen, living room, bathroom—every square inch is clean.

Self-conscious of the sparseness, Hackett clears his throat. "I don't have all of the furnishings up at the moment."

She doesn't appear to have listened. Her attention is drawn to the lone holoframe sitting on a stand. Mona picks it up, turning the image this way and that. "Are these people your family?" she asks, sounding strangely distant.

"Parents," Hackett says, coming to stand beside her. His father's smile is blinding; his mother's braids trail long and winding over her chest. "I'm an only child."

A slim, brown finger slowly traces the outline of their bodies. "Are they still on earth?"

He shakes his head. "Passed away a few years ago."

Mona sets the holoframe down. "Oh," she replies softly.

"What about you?"

She continues exploring the apartment while he follows. "No family to speak of," she calls out, running her hands along the stark white walls. They pass the foyer. "The city was my—mother."

"Poetic," he says.

Turning around, the smirk Mona's wearing makes her look more at ease again. "Makes a childhood spent in the slums sound exciting."

"Can't argue with that."

The next doorlock blinks red, which Hackett unlocks. She looks at him. "Bedroom," he clarifies, to which she smirks again and saunters inside. Immediately, she utters an approving noise at the carpet under their feet.

The interior is more clinically spotless than the rest of his apartment, with its stainless floor and naked surfaces. The ceiling-to-floor window gleams immaculately. Even the corners of his bedsheets are tucked in. To offset the severity of his room he adjusts the harsh glare of the room's ceiling lights to a dim glow. Too late to prevent a reaction however, because Mona walks to face him with a hand cocked on her hip. "How Spartan."

Hackett's personal effects do exist, but they are few in number and put away in drawers or cabinets every morning. Still, he laughs haltingly. "I can't see this as 'home' quite yet either."

"What's missing?"

He starts pulling off his shoes. "Empanadas frying on the stovetop, the national flag hanging in the living room—I might even try to get my hands on a leather rug."

Those eyebrows of hers rise again as she copies his action. "Seems like a whole lot of trouble to make a place look like home. Why did you leave?"

"Job prospects," he answers and stands in front of the window. His apartment distantly overlooks the park nestled at the center of the district, and during the day cycle, the bright pop of colors from the flowers and theirs foliage are visible all the way from here. There's a clear view of the inky black sky enveloping the station as well, swaddling them whole in its cosmic embrace. As a child (and later a young man), Hackett would look up from the dusty Buenos Aires streets, observing the same galactic stream, and wonder. "And I've got a bit of wanderlust too," he adds teasingly.

The presence of Mona's familiar scent lets him know that she's beside him, and quite close. "Must be something in the air," she comments quietly.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. Her hair—dark, curly, and begging to be touched—obscures her face. "Must be," he murmurs before brushing those locks back to better see the look on her face.

"Smooth," she deadpans, not moving away.

"I try," Hackett says patiently.

"Try harder."

The cheeky tilt of her head along with the words and the open challenge she's been projecting all night do the trick. In a single, precise movement, he has Mona's back against the window, her hair spread over the glass and around her head like a halo while her hands are lightly pinned behind her. The method of his lock has him holding her quite tightly, chest-to-chest, face-to-face. Her height nearly throws him off again. Mona exhales as Hackett inhales. He still cannot figure out for the life of him what she could be thinking at any given moment, such as this one.

Her eyes flutter at half-mast. "'A' for effort," she says in that husky voice, but before he can utter a single word, she whirls around in a series of economical movements to nail him in the same position he has just been in. He can't hide the shock registering on his face no more than he can mask the gasp from his mouth at her unexpected strength (but certainly no less welcome if the blood rushing downwards has anything to comment on the matter.)

"But…?" he manages between his shallow pants.

Mona smiles without showing her teeth and tightens her grip on him. He wouldn't have tried to break free regardless. "But," she whispers, leaning forward, "I prefer to lead."

Hackett grunts as she slides her thigh between his legs. "And I know how to follow orders," he echoes.

The smile blooms into a full, toothy grin. "Good," she says simply and kisses him.

It is and isn't what he expects. With his hands still pinned, he can only move his head to meet those full, rosy lips, and his chest strains against the iron-grip she has on him. Her kiss is equally forceful, tongue delving into his mouth while she pushes him even more against the glass. The tension she'd been holding has finally unleashed itself, and her nervous energy floats around them, rushing under his skin like a giddy buzz. He shudders at the thigh sliding in and out between his legs and curses the friction caused by their clothes.

Mona's strong and toned, he realizes, as she presses against him, all rock-solid abs and sinewy muscle beneath the deceptively soft skin. He can't break her hold easily, not without an actual fight. What kind of job does she have again? Did she even say? Not a bodybuilder, she's not big enough so maybe a merc down on her luck, or a soldier—ah. Hackett tenses. He doesn't want to follow that line of thought right now, not with her breasts crushed to his chest and her teeth leaving bite marks on his neck that he'll feel in the morning. Perhaps he'll even want them to stay.

When Mona pulls back and lets go of her hold, eyes glittering, the first thing Hackett does is roughly say, "Clothes," of which she begins to strip him with little ceremony.

His coat dropped on the floor. His belt kicked aside. His socks lost forever underneath the dresser. Each button undone on his dress-shirt is punctuated by a single, bruising kiss, a sensation comparable to surfacing for air after time spent underwater. Hackett's own hands grab fistfuls of her curly hair while she divests him of his trousers with brutal efficiency. After doing so, Mona shamelessly palms him through the flimsy fabric of his briefs, but there's no need; he's been hard since she turned the tables on him minutes before, and he can't remember the last time it happened so quickly and with so little effort on the other person's part.

To thank her, Hackett slowly nudges Mona backwards step by aching step until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She sits. He leans over. Her raised eyebrow prompts a "Ssh" from him as he carefully sweeps her hair off her shoulders, revealing the entirety of her fitted, black vest that shows her muscular arms and shoulders. Reverently, he grabs the zipper dangling at the "V" of her chest and pulls, the sound from which makes the both of them sigh at what's to come. At last, the zipper reaches the bottom of the garment, she shrugs it off, and he unhooks her bra with a flick of his wrist.

Hackett fervently watches her slip out of that too and leaves a trail of light nips from her neck to the hollow of her collarbone, on down to the skin between her breasts. Above him, Mona makes a strained, impatient noise that has him chuckling into her navel. As anticipated, she bucks, held in place by his hands on her hips. "Wait," he murmurs. Once he undoes the ties on her waistband, Hackett sinks to his knees and drags her pants off, fingers caressing newly shown flesh.

After gently pushing her back on the bed, he takes a moment to admire the image of her lain spread on the sheets (his sheets) like an obscene painting come to life before dipping his head lower to take off the sole scrap of clothing left on her with his teeth. It wetly peels away, to his immense satisfaction.

A hand suddenly cups the back of his head, insistently guiding him to where he's meant to go. Hackett happily obliges and licks his way back up from calf to knee to a creamy swath of inner thigh. Here, he has to pause, his cheek rubbing against skin like velvet umber, and slow his breathing down. It's been a while since he's taken anyone home. Anyone like her. He isn't one to spend his nights in this manner, not since leaving his twenties, but there are outliers to every trend, and how fortunate that he's found an exceptional example. For the longest minute, he refuses to tear his eyes away from the neatly-shaped bud of her cunt, flushed and slick. It's an arresting image. Eventually, Hackett takes a deep breath, savoring the heavy scent of her arousal, and tips forward to give her a long, slow lick.

Her moan is immediate, drawn-out and choked with such longing that he wonders when had been the last time she gave herself over like this. He continues in earnest then, and soon the only sounds in his ears are his ministrations and her noises of approval to spurn him on. Her cunt is silk on his tongue; her taste is milk in his mouth. Every spasm of her hips is a jolt to his cock, and the fingers threading through his hair yank tight enough to hurt. His palm lays flat on her stomach to keep her still as he uses his free hand to rub circles around her hardened little nub until she's arching off the bed and grinding into his face.

Her damp curls tickle his nose, retaining the lush, heady scent that is uniquely her. He pushes his tongue in deeper to fully taste her wetness. Muscular thighs clench and unclench at a rapidly increasing pace. Hackett holds on, ready to suck for all he's worth when she comes—

"Fuck," she yells, and jerks him up for a kiss. Mona licks his chin clean of her juices, legs locked around his waist while his eyes flutter open and close in lust-addled confusion. They disentangle with a wet pop.

"You didn't finish," he manages unsteadily.

Her lips are swollen, hair in wild disarray, but she doesn't look mad. On the contrary—"Don't worry about me," she says in between pants, still struggling to come back down from his attentions, and crooks a finger at him to properly join her on the bed. His briefs finally come off as he does so.

Looming over her with hands on either side of her head, Hackett becomes hyper-aware of stray sensations in the room: the whir of the air regulator, a creak from the mattress, the cold shivers in places that their bodies aren't touching. Abundantly thick, her hair spreads like spidery curls on his white sheets. Her skin gleams brown and healthy like the dark, young thing that she is. Mona watches him watching her with a twitch of her lips and in a movement too quick to catch, rakes her nails down his back to cup his ass. He jerks into her, muttering curses at the pleasurable sting on his skin. With a harsh laugh, she squeezes his ass.

"You were staring at me again."

The callback doesn't go unnoticed. "How rude of me," he says, playing along.

"Why?" she asks, idly tracing patterns on his hipbones with her fingertips.

With a ragged intake of breath, he replies, "I don't know—but you look like you belong here."

Instantly, Mona flips him over. It takes the wind out of him; he has to stop being surprised by this point. His hands settle on her hips as a smug little smile sneaks across her face. "Now I do," she says and bends down to kiss him.

Hackett lets her lead. Trying to anticipate her next move is like trying to capture lightning in a bottle, and storm that she is, Mona does what she pleases, and it's all Hackett can do not to get overwhelmed by the force of her desire. The cool restraint she possessed from earlier in the evening melted away the moment he made his intentions known, bringing out this keenly passionate part of her that both thrills and humbles him to the bone. The look in her eyes can freeze anyone mid-step, but the feeling of sliding himself into her cunt (at last, at last) is hot enough to burn down the apartment.

And she's quiet, more so than anyone he's ever been with. Hackett hadn't expected that, but it sharpens his ears to the noises he would have missed with another woman. A hiss that resents its escape. Those shuddering sighs that ripple across her body. That rare, abrupt gasp, cut off at the end by half-formed words he'll never hear. Although her relative silence is atypical, Mona shows her hunger in other nonverbal ways: the scratches on his back, the kiss-bruises on his neck, her mouth permanently parted in abandoned want. His world narrows to a single, repetitive, thrusting action driven by instincts he had previously kept under control.

A fever-hot hand touches his cheek, breaking his concentration.

"Eyes on me." Thickened by lust, her voice has dropped to a low, rasping purr.

Up close, the gray in her eyes are eaten up by pupils. He readily complies, watching a multitude of expressions flit across her face—some of which are self-evident, others he can't place. Those slender fingers, calloused and dexterous, gingerly trace the scar she had asked about earlier. Her features immediately turn thoughtful, almost pensive.

Hackett takes her fingers and sucks on each one of them. "Likewise," he returns, chuckling at the startled breath his mouth elicits.

"Your laugh," Mona says tightly and pulls him into a sitting position. "I really like—" her legs wrap around his back—"your laugh."

He chuckles again.

She licks an unbroken line from his neck to his ear. "It makes me so wet."

The words somehow have a direct line to his cock, which throbs in response. With one hand clutching her ass and the other on the crook of her neck, he quickly turns Mona on her back and re-enters her in one swift move.

"Hngh—!" Hackett swallows her groan in another kiss.

After that, he ups the tempo, determined to prevent Mona from mentally drifting again to that place he had seen before at the bar prior to their meeting. He doesn't like that it robs her of that fierce expression and the unforgiving set of her jaw he's become accustomed to seeing. Whatever she's running from, it's clear she's chosen him as the end destination, and he wants to keep her from running back.

Hackett can feel Mona getting close by the rigid arch of her back and the hitched moans escaping her mouth. Digging his knees into the bed, he angles his thrusts more deeply and buries himself to the hilt with every snap of his hips. She's not so quiet anymore, her harsh breaths mingling with his own shallow pants as those lean legs lock tight around him, heels hooked on his back, encouraging him to go as hard as he can. The pressure builds inside him too while he focuses on the blazing look in her eyes that seem to grow brighter and brighter until they're two gray pinpricks boring into his mind.

In a moment of inspiration, he sneaks a hand down to give Mona a few, speedy rubs around her clit, and just like that she stiffens, a husky "fuck" ripping from her throat before she's shaking, two white-knuckled grips on the bed-sheets as her teeth sink into his shoulder, and the sudden pleasure-pain triggers his own release into an embarrassingly long groan that he muffles in the pillowy softness of her hair. Their bodies jerk and shudder in aftershocks that leave them gasping at the intensity.

In time, though, they grow still in each other's arms, limbs and sheets tangled equally. Hackett hears Mona give a tiny sigh, wistful and somber, that has him lifting his head to see her contemplating the ceiling. Her chest rises and falls in comforting familiarity. He rolls over and lies next to her in the same position, watching her movements out of the corner of his eye. It's a while before she licks her lips and speaks.

"I needed that."

If Hackett had found her voice low-pitched before, Mona's practically rasping now. Whatever tension her shoulders were carrying has left too. "You're more relaxed."

She snorts. "It's called being well-fucked."

"Glad I could be of service," he says mildly.

"Don't expect a tip."

"I thought you already had."

The rich laugh she gives is answer enough. After stretching his arms, he sits up and bunches the covers in his arms. Hackett then gets out of the bed to unceremoniously dump the sheets in a laundry basket near a corner of the room and heads for the closet to search for a clean set. Mona follows this sequence with an amused expression. "Always the gentleman."

"A gentleman," he replies, tossing the blanket on the bed, "would request a follow-up meeting."

"And a lady would say yes," Mona quips and spreads the new sheets over herself before looking up at him. "But I'm no lady."

Hackett is disposing the condom wrapper when she says that, and pauses. After throwing it in a small bin, he turns around. "Then who are you?" he asks with a slight smile.

She shrugs. "A stranger you took to bed after meeting her at a bar."

He slowly sinks back down on the mattress. "But are we still strangers after that?"

Mona's curls fall across her face as she cocks her head to one side. "Do you feel like you know me now?"

"As much as you were willing to tell."

"Not a lot then."

"Enough for us to wind up here," he points out.

Mona smiles and not unkindly says, "But you want more."

Hackett says nothing at first. She stares back expectantly, sitting up with her knees loosely crossed, smelling like sex and satisfaction. The air coolly pricks at his skin as he takes a risk. "Why were you at the bar tonight?"

Her expression becomes shuttered. "I've answered that twice."

"Without really answering," he pushes.

"Why do you want to know so badly?" she asks with a sigh.

He thinks of the woman seated at her table, a vicegrip on her drink as her focus zoned in and out of the room. "You looked like you were somewhere else."

Mona bites her lip. "Weren't you back on earth with me?" she says quietly. The wideness of her eyes makes her seem vulnerable.

"Not as far, or deeply," Hackett admits.

A second passes before she nods knowingly. "Maybe that's for the best then."

He blinks in surprise, but recovers quickly at her gentle rebuff. "Of course."

Another unexpected smile graces her features, tender and oddly fitting on her face. "Go to sleep, Steven," she says and gives him a brief kiss. "You can think about me in the morning."

Hackett wordlessly nods as she turns over on her side without waiting for a verbal response from him. He draws the covers over them and tentatively slides a hand on the curve of her hip, taking comfort in the heat her body gives off. Inside, his head still teems with questions that she'll never entertain because it's not his business to know, no matter how much he'd like to. The lights completely shut off, with the only source of illumination pouring from the lit buildings outside his window. In the morning, he'll cook eggs for them both, granted that she's amenable to such a proposition.

The hours pass swiftly, and when he wakes in warm sheets, head groggy and body pleasantly sore, Hackett finds that breakfast will be served for only one today. Gone is any trace of Mona from the night before, save for her lingering scent on the bed. He looks around. Apart from the bedroom, his apartment is still immaculate. Nothing has been touched or disturbed from its proper place—except for him, however, but that is easily rectified by showering, dressing, and arriving at work in uniform, all of which he does, in that exact sequence, as he has been doing since starting his new life on Arcturus, and which he will continue to do for the foreseeable future. Hackett will even visit Serenity again, but doubts Mona will be there. As he recalls, she was merely passing through, and they had happened to run into each other at a serendipitous intersection.

He had uncharacteristically left the bed unmade while running out the door, reluctant to erase the memory of their meeting just yet, and there are stray, curly strands of hair on the pillowcases, something dark and intimate to offset the impersonal nature of his environment.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hackett enters the Normandy's diplomat room to find Commander Shepard standing in front of the window with her hands folded behind her back. She is dressed in her uniform blues, as is he. Techs are making preparations for his speech to be transmitted across ships, hers and his, before they fly together in a final bid for earth's liberation. He had come aboard early, personally greeting everyone on the main deck before wandering into this section of the ship. Outside the reinforced glass plating, streams of wreckage float past, eerily suspended in clouds of smaller detritus. He swallows at the sight: the remains of what had once been Arcturus Station.

She gives a slight incline of her head at his presence when he occupies the space next to her, a testament to the state of her mind right now to forget protocol. Given the situation, Hackett excuses her (as he has for everything else she's done.)

Mona is the first to break the silence. "When did they take Arcturus?"

"A few hours before your hearing." He looks down, the rim of his hat obscuring his face from her. "I sacrificed the entire 2nd Fleet to allow the 3rd and 5th to escape."

"You did what you had to do." The words sound so effortless coming out of her mouth.

He shakes his head. "I just hope it counts for something."

Mona hums in sympathy. "I hadn't visited Arcturus in years."

Hackett gestures to the window. "The place still looked the same before…" His hand drops. "Well."

"Even Serenity?"

Next to the Reapers, her question is the second most unexpected development. His stomach does a strange backflip at the mention of his old haunt, and that she would bring it up—that she'd even remember. She had given no sign of recognition when they later, inevitably crossed paths again as soldier and superior officer; Hackett thought she'd forgotten altogether—a foolish notion, given what he knows about her now.

Facing her, he says, "My old apartment too." This is as good a time as any to break protocol.

Her head is canted at a thoughtful tilt while her face remains an impassive mask: eyes gray and opaque, brows smooth and unmoving, lips full and delicately pressed to keep her secrets. A decade after their meeting in Arcturus and she still looks like the woman at the bar—key word being "looks." The tense, almost angry, energy he had witnessed coming off of her is nowhere to be found, having morphed into this calm statue of a leader who hides as much as she once showed. Hackett wants to laugh; after all this time, he still can't read her.

"Sorry I left without leaving a note," she replies with a rueful smile.

He returns the expression. "I figured you had something to do."

"I did." A long, smooth crack appears in the furrow of her brow. "That morning, I was making an offering at the local Buddhist temple—for my mother," she answers, pronouncing each word as if it'd been held in her mouth before leaving her lips. Mona sighs. "It was the anniversary of her death."

Hackett has a sharp intake of breath. "Ah, I thought…"

"That according to my file, I grew up an orphan in the slums?" Amazing, how a small turn of her head can look sardonic. "That did happen. Afterwards."

He blinks at her. The bar setting, the shared nostalgia, the attention paid to the holo of his parents—

"I didn't know," Hackett says simply. Hadn't thought to string the disparate details together.

She begins a motion with her hand as if to reassure him, but abruptly stops and nods instead. "I didn't want you to."

He had cleared away the hair on his pillow after work. The clothes scattered across the floor were picked up and washed, as were the bedsheets. Her scent had faded, joining the pool of memories he would look back on in his free hours. What a time to be reminiscing now, though, instead of thinking and thinking about her in the days (and weeks) immediately after like he should have. Not that he hadn't at all, but in hindsight, he certainly could have approached her when they met again and asked her to tell him things not found in her file. But in the end, Hackett can only compare this done-up, hair-in-a-tight-bun soldier and the young woman in his bed ten years ago and muse on what had happened in between to create this symbol of hope for the galaxy.

Absurdly, he wonders if she's ever told anyone about them—If she's ever sat down to recall that evening, period.

"About that night—"he begins.

"They're ready for you, Admiral," an aide announces from the door threshold, startling them both into standing straight. Mona fixes her gaze on the window again.

Hackett clears his throat. "Right, I'll be there," he tells other man. When the footsteps die off into the distance, he turns back to her and swallows. "Duty calls."

Her lips are pressed in a thin line. "It always does."

"You'll see this through." And then, before he can rethink it, "And after we've won, I'll buy you the drink of your choice."

An impish smirk works its way across her face. "Looking forward to it."

"Likewise." But before making his way out, Hackett pauses and hesitates. He claps a hand on her shoulder, the muscle definition evident even through the heavily textured fabric, and tries not to dwell on that too much. "Good luck, Mona."

She glances back at him again, seemingly unperturbed by the touch. Her expression flickers. "Same to you, sir."

Hackett walks away then, his mind shifting priorities like his speech to the crew to the forefront. There will be time enough to sit down with the commander and wax nostalgic on earth—and the past.


End file.
